Thursday, November 19, 2009

At first I thought she'd just caught a chill and then had become weak from not nursing for a couple of hours, but there was something else wrong. Something not working right in her complicated and miraculous little newborn system.

We thought Dolores had miscarried last winter because we found a large patch of blood in the snow by the barn and blood on her legs, and we were thrilled when she became so big it was obvious she was pregnant. But she could have been carrying twins and lost one. Twins in equines are almost never a good thing. The remaining fetus would have been weakend, and possibly harmed by residues that weren't flushed out during the miscarriage.

I saw Dolores pawing at her newborn baby, urging her to stand up. I've seen ewes do this before to their lambs. She meant well—and there was nothing I could do to stop her—but Dolores probably weighs 800 pounds. At one point, she put enough weight on the baby's side that I heard an audible expulsion of air. That can't have been good.

Or it could have been something else entirely.

Monday afternoon, in desperation, I tossed a bucket of treats onto the grass to distract Dolores (who is fiercely protective and could easily kill me with a single swift kick), hoisted up the baby, and carried her across the front field and up to the barn.

I then proceeded to do everything I could to save her. We spent the last five hours on the beat up old hardwood floor in the living room, next the the blazing woodstove, with Robin, Mr. Midnight, and Molly Doodlebug rallying nearby. Actually, Mr. Midnight, as cats are wont to do, kept trying to climb onto her soft, toasty body, but he finally settled for curling up on the other half of the pillow tucked under my butt.

When it became clear that nothing I could do was going to keep her from dying, I refused to simply abandon her. I wanted her to know she wasn't alone, and that during her short time here she was loved. I rested her head on my outsretched leg, folded my other leg protectively over her body, and proceeded to rub my hands gently across that oh-so-soft fur until she drifted into sleep and eventually took her last breath.

Her heart continued to beat. And then I felt mine break.

I'm no stranger to death here on the farm, and losing an animal is never easy, but losing this little donkey hurt more than most.

While we were sitting there together on the living room floor, I named her Flitta, because she flitted in and out of our lives. And also because it sounds sort of like an abbrieviation for The Flame Trees of Thika, a beloved book I've read numerous times.

When things are going badly on the farm, I often venture back to Kenya in the early 1900s, through Elspeth Huxley's Thika books about her childhood there, or by watching my all time favorite movie, Out of Africa, yet again. These women lived in a strange and beautiful and sometimes dangerous place, and the tales of their often difficult adventures always put mine into a comforting perspective.

I choose to live on this farm in the middle of nowhere, thousands of miles from where I grew up. I choose to surround myself with dozens of animals who depend on me and often become very close to my heart. The high points soar straight to the heavens. The low ones can reach down to the depths of your soul.

It's been a rough several days. Our sweet Zelda became ill on Friday and died on Saturday afternoon. Not long after we'd started naming all our new animals alphabetically according to the year they were born or arrived on the farm (last year were the 'E' names, this year are the 'F' names), I pointed to a ewe and said to Joe, "This pre-alphabet sheep needs a name."

"Zelda!"

"Zelda?"

"I doubt we'll make it to the 'Z' names," he said, "and if we do, she'll already be dead by then." It suited her perfectly. Zelda's death was unexpected, but at seven years old it was understandable. Chip and Chip, at 13, are considered pretty ancient by sheep standards.

About 3 Hours Old

Then of course came Flitta. Today is the first time it hasn't been raining or drizzling since Sunday. Joe has been out of town during all this, so I've been dealing with everything on my own.

Before Donkey Doodle Dandy unexpectedly came into our lives several years ago, I'd never had any experience with donkeys—let alone pictured myself owning one. Now we have a herd of six, and I can't imagine not being surrounded by these intelligent, entertaining, and very companionable animals.

My muscles ache, my heart is broken, and my darling little donkey girl is gone. Tears are streaming down my face as I type this, and I still wake up with a heavy thud of sadness. But despite the tragic ending, I'm still very grateful I was there for her beginning. That precious, amazing experience can never be taken away.

It saddens me to hear that Fritta and Zelda have passed. I'm terribly sorry for your losses. And I'd like to thank you for sharing all your photos and stories of life on the farm. May memories bring you comfort and time bring you peace :-)

I'm so sorry for your loss. I am always so touched by how you care for dying animals on your farm (I was telling a friend today about the wonderful pictures I saw of the dark baby donkey and I came here tonight to grab the link to send her.) Little Flitta knew love in her short life and died surrounded by love and warmth. No soul can ask for more.

Ohhhh...So very sorry about your loss! It is always so sad, especially when you gave it your all. She was so cute too. God bless you, I'll say a prayer for you tonight if thats ok. Living the farm life sometimes is so tough and so real...but also so wonderful. Sending you my love~Come and say hi :D

I know just exactly how you feel. We live on a farm, and every animal is so dear to me. We lost one of my young horses earlier this year, and I thought my heart would just break. My first post on my first blog is much like yours http://araratacres.blogspot.com

I fear as I go out to feed this morning that I will have lost my beloved hen, Henny Penny. She didn't look quite right last night. She is quite old, for a chicken.

Anyway, I mourn with you my sister on the farm. ~Liz, sister farmgirl.

I'm so sorry, Susan... for me there is nothing more rewarding than being the caretaker over animals, but the heartbreak I've felt from losing some of my animal family this year makes me hurt for you right now. Hugs to you.... and Godspeed, Flitta.

I stumbled onto your blog while searching for better bread making tips, now I am crying into my morning coffee. Thank you for sharing these moments from your sometimes difficult/more often rewarding life.

Susan, I'm so sorry. I cried a little in sympathy when I read your post. Those crazy little critters worm their way into our hearts so fast. I had pretty much the exact same scenario a few years ago except it was a calf by the fire, and an old motherly dog assisting rather than cats. My heart still aches remembering.

I am so sorry to hear about your loss of both Flitta and Zelda. I am sitting her at my desk at work crying - I can only imagine how you feel. This is the first time I've commented on your blog - but I do want you to know how much I look forward to reading it. It's part of my morning ritual to check my emails and then look at your blog. Thank you for sharing your stories and pictures with us. Take care. Pam

Oh, I am so very sorry. We raise newborn kittens and have lost those precious, fragile little ones a few times. It does absolutely break your heart to do everything you could possibly do, and watch it not be enough. Blessings to you ~Leigh Ann

I am so sad for you. Flitta's story brought a tear to my eye this morning. At least she had you and the other animals in the living room with her in her last moments to know she was loved. As always, thanks for sharing.

I came back to your webpage today to soak in some much beauty and love of your new baby donkey, Flitta, only to find that her life was so very short. I know she will always live strong in your heart. And a special prayer for Zelda also. Farm life is one of love, hard work and sadness. My heart goes out to you and all those you love and care for.

Oh I'm so sorry, Susan. You are much stronger than I. As much as I would love to live on a farm, I am not brave when animals die. But I am so glad that you were there for her in such a wonderful way. It meant everything.

You are the EXACT person who should be living such a life removed from everything you know, and surrounded by animals that depend on you. You understand what it means to touch an animal's soul, even for a brief time. Flitta was blessed to have you. I have also lost animals, whether they are with you for hours or decades, it still impacts you deeply.

I know what you're going through - I lost a yearling when he slipped and broke his neck (long story) and his mother kept pawing him wondering why, later, he wouldn't get up. I was a young teen girl with dreams pinned on this horse who was not only a horse but a friend of mine. I cried my eyes out...

I've been following your blog for a long time, but never commented. However, your sad story of Flitta brought back the memory of a recently lost donkey myself. We moved to the country from the city last year and inherited a male and two pregnant female donkeys. We were there for the birth of one who we called Zero (maybe a bad choice). A month and a half later it was like he lost his will to live. We were there with him till the end. He was very lovable and so precious. I'm sorry you had to go through this too. Janet

I have no idea how it is that you do what you do...but i know this, there's a special place in heaven for people like you...people who love and protect and care for animals... I think that the day you get to the pearly gates...it won't be St. Peter waiting for you there--it will be all of the animals you've loved so much, who got to heaven before you...

Susan, please accept this sincere tribute to the love and care you bestow upon your critters, and also my sadness at the passing of Flitta and Zelda. May God watch over them as they wander sunny fields full of friends, and also over you and Delores as you deal with your loss and pain. What you did for Flitta at her ending is more than some people get, she was blessed. And so are you.

I sympathize - I just had to put down my thoroughbred mare yesterday. I'd only had her 6 weeks... She coliced and it was not resolving after 4 days of treatment. I hate it when I have to play "goddess."

She was a lovely little one. No one will replace her, but there will be others to warm your heart.

Hey Susan-came back to see how the little guy/gal was doing and now sit here crying on my keyboard for you. The pictures that you posted are just amazing. Really feeling for you-although you have leaned towards posting either cute, beautiful or funny photos of the animals, we all know that farm life is sometimes sad to the extreme, and this latest series shows that. Wonderful that you and hunky farm guy have absolutely retained your hearts in a very tough low margin business and that you care for your animals so very very much.

You are a very kind, nurturing woman. Your animals are all lucky to have such wonderful love and care. There is a reason you are where you are, doing what you do. There is a reason we all love to read about your adventures on your farm, cooking, creating, working hard to nourish and nurture your family and your community. You are passionate about the way you live, and we admire it.

I am so sorry for your family's loss. As you can see from all of your comments, many are grieving with you.

I don't think I have ever commented here (shame on me! but I get it by email and am a busy single homeschooling full-time mom working full time from home!) but I so enjoy living vicariously through your photos and posts of life on a farm - something I have alwys dreamed of. I am so sad to hear of your loss of this precious little baby. She was just beautiful and I am sorry you lost her so soon. I dream of having a little hobby farm with my daughters some day but I know this inevitable part of the cycle of nature would be difficult for us to bear, but I also know it is all worthwhile. Thinking of you and sorry also you had to deal with this alone. But a lot of us out here are grieving for you and with you! Take care!

"You are a very kind, nurturing woman. Your animals are all lucky to have such wonderful love and care. There is a reason you are where you are, doing what you do. There is a reason we all love to read about your adventures on your farm, cooking, creating, working hard to nourish and nurture your family and your community. You are passionate about the way you live, and we admire it."

Losing fur children is very hard but it seems to me that losing a new-born is the hardest. She had such great possibilities and now she is gone, in an instant. My heart goes out to you - watching it happen is hard but so necessary for the child's benefit as well as yours.

I am so sorry for your loss and your pain. I, too, have recently lost two of my baby farm chickens, and it does break your heart, as you feel so helpless.We must remember the fleeting joy they have given us, just like your name for her, Flitta, peace to you, sister farmgirl.Paulette

Some of us feel very close to your furry babies. We laugh at their antics and ooh and aah at thier sweetest. Today, we grieve for their loss, your loss and ours.I am so very sorry and send you a big hug.

Hi Everybody,Thank you all so much! What a wonderful outpouring of heartfelt kindness and sympathy. I can't even tell you how much it means to me. Of course now you have me in tears once again—but in a good way.

Dolores seems to be doing fine, though she didn't grieve for the loss of her baby like she should have—another sign that something was definitely wrong with Flitta. Animal mothers often know and sense so much more than we give them credit for. They truly are amazing.

We'll try for more baby donkey girls (we can't keep the boys because there's only room for one jack on a farm—if they get near each other they'll fight to the death, and even if we got little Fernando cut, there's no guarantee Donkey Doodle Daddy wouldn't still go after him), but we won't breed Daphne and Dolores until spring, so they'll have their babies in warm weather.

In the meantime, sheep breeding season has begun, which means lambing season—and all the cuteness that comes with it—is right around the corner! Well, it won't start until April actually, but I know it'll be here in the blink of an eye. And the miraculous circle of life continues. . .

Oh my goodness, I found your blog the day she was born and it was like we were right there alongside, so excited for you! To come back today and see this is so heartbreaking. Our thoughts are with you and you're obviously amazing to take such sweet care of her in her last few moments.

I am so sorry...living in such close contact with so many animals can be both amazing and heart breaking. But as everyone has said, she was surrounded with love while she was here and that is a very special thing. Thank you for sharing her precious moments with us.

OH, dear. Tears are streaming down my face. I am so sorry. :( Thank you for loving Flitta so much in her last, peaceful hours. And Zelda enjoyed the good life! Give momma Delores some extra love, too. Her heart breaks. :::hugs Susan:::

Finally able to come back and say how sorry I am about Flitta's death, and sending you a heartfelt hug. I know it can't be easy, and you wrote beautifully about a very difficult fact of the farming life. Take care.....

Susan,I am so very sorry for your loss. I will keep you and your Famiy of animals in my thoughts and prayers. Thank you so very much for sharing this with your loyal readers. You write so beautifully. Thank you.All the Best,-Peg

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